


Paint me a Literature of Love

by bottomlouiswriter



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Bottom Louis, Dom/sub Undertones, Light Dom/sub, Literature, M/M, Mentions of homophobia, Painting, Teacher Harry Styles, Teacher Louis Tomlinson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:15:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21688183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bottomlouiswriter/pseuds/bottomlouiswriter
Summary: Harry loves literature. It also just so happens he falls in love with a painter who is the perfect subject for prose and poetry.Louis loves art, specifically acrylic. It seems perfectly fitting that he finds a man that inspires him to paint with all the colours in his supply.Or - The 90's au with art teacher Louis and literature teacher Harry.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Comments: 32
Kudos: 276
Collections: Bottom Louis Fic Fest 2019





	Paint me a Literature of Love

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt 82: 90′s high school teachers AU prompt. Louis is a loved by all art teacher who wears overalls to work while also sporting colourful paint smeared cheeks. He won’t admit to spending his alone time painting pictures of the new literary teacher from across the hall. Harry is a stern literacy teacher who reads way too many romance novels while also occasionally spending his nights writing poetry about a certain art teacher’s eyes. Their colleagues Ziam, (Zayn, who’s a music teacher and Liam, who’s a gym teacher) who are all too familiar with how this works and Niall (An unhinged science professor) try to help push them in the right direction.
> 
> Warnings for mentions of homophobia. 
> 
> First off - writing this, was truly something I wasn't even sure I was capable of. Now that it's finished I'm so incredibly happy and proud of the product. I'll apologize in advance for the lack of other characters in this fic, as I do know the prompt originally does specify more involvement of the other boys - but as per usual my plan got scrapped and I just started what came to me easiest. I truly hope this lives up to the expectation of the prompt. 
> 
> Secondly - it really has been a long time since I've written, so I want to thank the BLFF and all the writers and the mods involved as everyone was really encouraging. I'd also like to thank my wonderful beta Anna who was always replying to my many comments on both whatsapp and the actual doc I was writing in. You really helped me get the fic where I wanted and needed it to go - so thank you. 
> 
> Finally to readers, I hope you enjoy this story as much as I do. 
> 
> Thank you.

_“I paint my own reality._

_The only thing I know is that I paint because I need to,_

_and I paint whatever passes through my head_

_without any other consideration”_

_Frida Kahlo._

There was an astounding amount of clarity found within the abstract strokes of a worn-down paint brush – definitely filled with paint that Louis had forgotten to wash out one too many times, and decaying from many years’ worth of wear. It was the familiar feel of the last remaining paint brush from the pristine set he received as a graduation present from art school that grounded him; gave him the assured grip to strike bright hues and pigments across the previously blank canvas. It was the familiarity of the brush that had helped him paint so many previous master pieces before that made it the perfect tool to do it once more.

The brush really was Louis’ favourite, and it had truly created many pieces of art he had loved – ones he had even sold; but today’s quick strokes across the cheap canvas was merely methodical. There was nothing new to the familiar strokes of the first art assignment Louis had planned out two weeks prior before the new fall semester started for his senior students. While the technique was more complex, it was also simply a review of what his seniors had learned before – and nearly the same thing he taught in class this morning.

Rolling his neck to one side, and shuffling his feet, Louis tried to finish up the painting quick. The continuous standing all day today after the entire summer off relaxing at home was really taking its toll on his body. Not used to the crappy school supplied easels that were too tall for one to sit and paint at and certainly not used to the concrete floors that did nothing to help the ache in his lower back. The pain only got worse when Louis aimed to move in closer to do more detail on the piece – and that was nearly enough for Louis to call it a day. It was completely fine if his students only learned half the assignment today – it was only the first day back, and typical seniors, as much as Louis adored each one, would most likely be too caught up in their last first day; too riled up to care about their favourite teacher’s requests to _please only put paint on the canvas not each other ladies and gents_ , and _to please pay attention to the assignment and stop painting paraphernalia on your canvas._

Shaking his head, Louis definitely decided that was enough painting. It was only mere seconds after he had set his paintbrush down that he heard a loud clatter followed by a quiet _“shit”._

Laughing to himself – wondering if Niall one of the co-workers that was his actual friend had tipped over some of the new art supply boxes outside the room – Louis wandered over to the door. Wiping his already paint speckled hands onto the thighs of his covered overalls, Louis opened the door and was shocked to see a styled head of brunette curls instead of the frosted tips of Mr. Horan.

The man was crouched, grabbing things that had obviously fallen from a nearly broken cardboard box onto the floor underneath the table supporting a handful of other boxes and bins. Louis made a small surprised sound, freezing in the archway of his own door watching as the man startled before smacking his head underneath the table.

“Oof mate,” Louis rushed out, cringing to himself and watching as the man wiggled himself out from under the table and away from his fallen items to quickly stand up and brush down his button up. “You alright?”

The man flushed even more, the light pink dusting high against his cheekbones turning ruby red as he nodded. “Yes.” Clearing his throat and gesturing around him wildly the man looked up to Louis – sheepish like the senior schoolboys Louis was all too used to. “Sorry to disturb your class. I’m just working on getting all my books into my new classroom. As you can see it’s going lovely.”

Chuckling to himself, Louis nodded. “I see.” Gesturing his hand behind his shoulder, Louis mentioned, “I’ve no class though. I’d be happy to help if you need. I don’t actually have class again till half past one.”

The mere suggestion of help seemed to relieve a weight off the man’s shoulders as he smiled but shook his head. “Really thank you, but I couldn’t ask you to do that.”

Shrugging and stepping towards the boxes Louis grabbed the closest one that also looked light. He was trying to be nice, but that didn’t necessarily entail throwing out his back. “It’s no problem.” Nodding towards the door nearly opposite his own Louis asked, “I’m guessing you’ve got old Mrs. Griffith’s classroom eh?”

Looking towards the placard beside the door labelled 153, the man nodded. “Looks that way yeah.”

Shuffling past the man with the bin Louis walked into the room, and nearly laughed at the sight that greeted him. Boxes on top of each other, half put together bulletin boards on the wonders of English literature alongside figureheads of the classic authors. It also looked like there was an attempt at a creative seating arrangement, but it looked more like a hectic mess with injuries waiting to happen. Louis really did try to stop the laugh that bubbled from his mouth, but it fell anyway – just in time for the man to enter behind Louis with another box.

“I know it’s an absolute disaster.” He sounded exasperated, but the man was laughing alongside Louis. 

Setting his box down alongside a cluster of other boxes Louis turned around the room, blatantly ignoring the inquisitive look the man had pinned to his every movement and began to think.

“Why are you only just setting up now?” Louis’ eyebrows drew together confused when he realised the English literature classes were typically set to be on the A schedule that rotated Monday, Wednesday, Friday much like Louis’ own classes. “Your classes are schedule A’s, aren’t they? Aren’t you supposed to have had a class in here already?”

Rolling his eyes and nodding, the man sat on one of the free desks that weren’t clustered in the odd seating formation and sat back – looking towards Louis. “A Ms. D is apparently teaching my schedule A’s for today to give me the rest of the day to set up. I was only just called to come in this past Friday for the permanent position as Mrs. Griffith had apparently gone into labour prematurely and would obviously be taking her maternity leave earlier than anticipated.”

Shocked, Louis nods his head. Everyone was aware Mrs. Griffith was pregnant, but apparently the principal had not deigned it important to notify his staff that their co-worker had delivered early but was still fine. Or even that a completely new staff would be filling in her position most likely for the remainder of the year – the new one that had _just_ started.

“Makes sense.”

Sitting down in another free desk, Louis leaned back and stuffed his hands into the pockets of his overalls. He felt sheepish when he compared his paint speckled clothes and shoes to the crisp, clean outfit the man had on. Even for a moving day the man had on smart slacks, and a light blue button down, and a pair of fancy loafers to complete the look.

Difference in profession and position he supposed.

Shaking his head and turning to look at the other man, Louis laughed and then waved, “I was so quick to help you move your boxes I forget to introduce myself.” Leaning across the small distance between the two desks they were sitting at, Louis formerly offered his hand – paint covered as it was.

“Louis Tomlinson, the art teacher in case that wasn’t obvious enough.”

That sparked a laugh from the man, who returned the handshake; hand firm and much larger and warmer than Louis’ own. “Harry Styles.” It was completed with one final shake of their hands before Harry broke it off. “English Literature teacher in case the massive amount of books, and literary quotes didn’t make it apparent enough.”

Laughing at the reply so close to his own, Louis nodded his head. “Pleasure mate.” Gesturing out the door and to his own classroom, Louis looked to Harry and laughed. “In case it wasn't obvious I’m your classroom buddy – or nearly. Usually there are at least four teachers in one section of the school, but we got cheated and were stuffed in the smaller part of the east wing. The other closest adult would be in the gym – where Mr. Payne is about ninety-nine percent of the time.”

“Good to know.” It produced a small laugh from the other man and Louis felt the air turn slightly stagnant like there was not much left to say.

Standing up, realizing he had to check on his painting for his senior class anyway, Louis made for the door. “Anyway mate, I’ll leave you to it. If you have any other questions I’ve been here a fair while, so I sound be able to help – unless it’s with Shakespeare or some other outdated man of literature. For those ones you’re on your own.”

Smiling nearly ear to ear – but definitely dimple to dimple – the man nodded and thanked him.

“Louis?” It was heard just as Louis was nearly in his own classroom. Backtracking to the archway of Harry’s doorway Louis raised his eyebrows.

“Yes?”

“Am I allowed to wear converse high tops as well? Or is that a special art teacher perk?”

Laughing enough to draw crinkles to the corner of each eye, Louis shook his head. “No mate, these Converse are truly only a Tommo special.”

Dimpling just on the one side this time, Harry nodded and moved to start unpacking a box of more books. “Good to know, figures I couldn’t make converse look cool as an English lit teacher anyway.”

Louis leaves it at that but walks to the door smiling.

The artist in him can’t help but remember the hues of mischief and curiosity lingering in the gorgeous array of green that made up Harry’s eyes. If he added some forest green to his canvas for the senior class that really is only his business – the green truly did make the blue and the pink more 1991 after all.

**

_“Poetry is the spontaneous overflow_

_of powerful feelings:_

_it takes origin from emotion_

_recollected in tranquility.”_

_William Wordsworth._

Harry always had a strong passion for language, even before he could eloquently string words together.

For him it had never been the fluidity of language that provoked such a strong appreciation for literature but the essence of time and feeling encapsulated in pages that made all the reading, writing and then re-writing worth it. Uni had only opened more doors and more genres to Harry’s appreciation; from romance to tragedy Harry loved them all. The mounds of books he had collected over the years could certainly attest to that.

But it wasn’t for the sake of knowing Shakespeare or Milton off the top of his head, that Harry fell in love with literature. It was the learning the multiple eras of language and literature that had led Harry to his greatest passion: writing his own prose.

He was certainly no Wordsworth or Shelley, but he liked to think he had something above the average. His prose was rather advanced, as he had written consistently for nearly ten years. Words seemed to flow out of him like a fountain, and it was rare that Harry didn’t touch his journal at least once a day. It wasn’t for the sake of one day finding appreciation in publishing; it was simply for the sake of not having feelings or ideas weighing heavily on his chest. Writing had a way of relieving the stress or anxiety inherently deep in Harry’s bones and he had never found anything as therapeutic as it.

The instance of an eclectic art teacher with blue eyes was no exception to Harry’s writing.

Nearly immediately from the first glance at the school’s art teacher, Harry had sunlight and cosmos comparisons relaying through his head; paired up with starlight and seaside comparisons to the blue of Louis’ eyes, Harry swore there would never be an end to his writing about this particular man.

That was certainly where he was now. Writing about paint speckles smeared across tan cheeks just barely starting to lose their color from the summer – despite it being the middle of September – and the way the same paint speckles seeming to arrange themselves into constellations whenever Louis smiled. Constellations paired with a personality of moon dust and sun rays, dark yet lovely, Harry could not fathom how a man so ordinary seemed entirely out of this realm of reality.

_Men feel like mere mortals when in the presence of the enigmatic essence of sun, moon, and eternal universe compacted into the singular form of –_

Shaking his head, nearly scratching the lines out, Harry frowned to himself. He was getting to be a tad dramatic when writing Louis into journal. Just yesterday he had used the man to prove in his writing that immortality must be true because there was no way a regular individual aged that well.

It wasn’t like the statement was a lie, but Harry figured he should step away from the vampiric gothic notions of his classroom neighbour in favour of getting ready for the next class block starting in fifteen minutes.

Today was supposed to be the second day of the soft introduction to romantic poetry, and as such, Harry had copied sheets of two poems that he needed to place on the student’s desk before they got in. He wanted to dive right in as soon as the bell chimed because they were dealing with two of Harry’s favourites. He was damn near jumping out of his own skin to get started on teaching his students the wonders of romantic poets and their classic prose.

It was nerdy and ridiculous, but Harry didn’t entirely care. A smile easily overtook his face as he placed copies of Keats’ “La Belle Dame Sans Merci” and Byron’s “She Walks in Beauty” on his student’s desks because these works – these phenomenal writers were why Harry loved what he studied and what he taught. The near nirvana experience of listening to the stanzas of these poets were what got Harry through the stress of his sudden move and his new teaching position. The complaining teenagers were a small drawback, but nothing could even take away the peace Harry felt when the first lines of Byron were read out.

Hearing a tilt of laughter outside his door, Harry looked up – pausing his process of placing sheets on desks – and was easily caught up in the figure that filled out the space in front of his door. It wasn’t rowdy teenagers like it was before his second block for the day on Tuesday and it wasn’t just Liam the gym teacher who had made a few too many jokes with the jocks from the gym on their way to the lunch room.

Instead it was Louis. The definition of comfortable and cute; strapped into paint covered jean overalls (something Harry had come to eagerly expect and anticipate because they were the _best_ artsy punk teacher combo he had ever seen) with a striped knit jumper underneath and his standard Chucks on his feet. The pant legs of his overalls were frayed, and it seems like Louis had tried to roll them up to hide that fact. It just made Harry smile more, biting at the corner of his mouth to stop his face from being too entirely obvious.

Caught up in the sight of the beautiful boy just lingering in front of his door like an invitation Harry stumbled when his legs decided to carry him forward. Swearing as his legs hit the desk in front of him, he glanced away just in time to see Louis’ head swivel towards him.

Swearing for another reason entirely, Harry shook his head. Partially at his inability to coordinate his own damn limbs and partially to hide his face that had decided to flame red. Hoping the tendrils of curls were enough to hide the embarrassment so clearly written on his face, Harry went back to laying the print outs on the desks.

He stumbled again, when he heard someone clear their throat – head snapping up to find Louis lingering somewhat unsure inside the doorway.

Waving awkwardly – thankfully with the hand that wasn’t holding all the print outs – Harry cleared his throat. “Hello.”

Smiling enough to bring crinkles near his eyes, Louis waved back. “Hello Harry.”

The entire palm of his right hand was nearly covered in a periwinkle blue which seemed to match the pastel yellow and soft pink that also speckled his fingertips. Harry remembered that his class was playing with colour composition for abstract pieces this week, and he nearly got lost in the wonder of colour that lingered on Louis’ hand – wondering to himself privately what other sort of masterpiece the man had managed to paint with those colours that seemed so opposite to one another.

Instead of fumbling with the collar of his shirt in a vain attempt to make the words flow more easily out of his throat, Harry fiddled with the papers in his hands, surely bending and curling the edges of previously pristine paper. “How’s the day going?”

Louis snorts yet his face still crinkles into a soft expression, nodding his head as he looks at his feet. Harry notices then that the whites of the black chucks on Louis’ feet are filled with large drops of navy blue paint. Harry nearly wants to ask if the navy goes with the periwinkle on Louis’ hands – wants to ask if he can see the two colours smeared together on the canvas definitely drying in Louis’ storage closet; wants to ask if he can see Louis smeared in those two colours alone.

Nearly shaking his head outwards, Harry gives himself shit. _Do not think of the pretty art teacher naked and covered in his own creations_.

Harry clearly missed the question thrust his way, because when he manages to look Louis in the face he’s met with a raised eyebrow and a cocky smirk.

Teetering out loud with an awkward laugh, Harry grips the papers in his hands tighter. “I’m sorry – I missed the question. Obviously.”

“Obviously.” Louis parrots back, even deepening his voice and standing up straighter to try and mimic Harry. It brings a deeper dimple to Harry’s face that stays there even after Louis sags back into his hip once more – posture relaxed, hand going to his hip.

“I asked how your day is going Mr. Styles.”

This time around Harry is very tempted to tug at the collar that chafes hotly against his neck. The last name – like a total goddamn cliché – has him feeling more than a little flushed. His hand twitches against his thigh, unsure of whether he wants to unbutton his shirt just that little bit or if he wants to pull Louis into him. He figures both would be nice – but he does neither. Choosing instead to pick at the hem of his slacks.

“Rather average,” Harry mumbles out, ruffling the pages in his hands again. “Though have to say I am quite excited to start classes today, working on some Romantic poets.” His weird grimace turns into a thorough smile. The genuine happiness must show on his face as Louis smiles back at him; snagging his bottom lip in between his teeth to avoid a full-on grin for old authors he truly doesn’t appreciate.

Ducking his head down, Louis huffs a laugh to himself giving Harry a perfect opportunity to admire the way shadows cast spiderwebs across Louis’ cheeks from his eyelashes. Harry swears they are better than freckles – he’s got to find a way to work that into his writing.

Looking back up, Louis has a more serious look on his face and Harry’s stomach drops. Gone is the easy-going Mr. Tommo and instead it’s replaced with the concerned, analytical Mr. Tomlinson. Harry’s only ever seen this side when Louis is helping out a student or looking at his student’s art – though there’s usually a happy spark in the twinge of cerulean when Louis is doing that.

This time, as Louis looks Harry straight on, there is a sympathy lingering in the depths of his gaze – apologetic, yet also desperate. That realization makes Harry worry more. Wondering at length what could turn his sunshine of an art teacher into a somber regular man.

“Listen,” Louis starts out, voice hesitant as if approaching a frightened animal – though let us be real, that’s entirely what Harry was right now. Louis continues though, gaining confidence as he speaks.

“There’s a lad in my class, top artist and amazing skill. Set to go straight to an amazing art program at Man U.” A smile takes over Louis’ face, and for a split-second Harry’s eclectic boy is back. But it changes minutely and deepens once more as he continues. “But these past couple weeks he’s been a little more distracted and down. Talking with him and he’s said he’s struggling maintaining the grades needed for his full ride.”

Frowning himself, truly feeling his heart break for the poor guy Harry nods his head.

“I’m really sorry Lou.”

Louis nods his head, bopping it almost as a distraction for what words still linger – waiting to be said. “It’s mainly in your English class Harry.”

Louis accent hooks so pleasantly on the H in his name, and it’s nearly enough for Harry to block out what else Louis said.

Almost.

Frowning further and sinking into his hip in a faux appearance of unoffended, Harry clears his throat. “I’m sorry?”

Advancing further into the room, Louis comes nearly toe to toe with Harry. His eyes are seeking, and so are his hands – as if waiting for Harry to throw him a life line.

Harry doesn’t – unsure of why he would need to. Instead he shuffles back just the slightest bit, enough to get a moment’s breath outside of Louis’ cologne and turns his head to look at his boots. Tapping the toe in a random pattern to mainly avoid looking back up at Louis.

He lasts only a small eight count before his eyes wander back on account of Louis’ nervous fidgeting.

Harry wouldn’t notice the slight tight of his eyebrow, or the fiddling of his hands if he hadn’t always watching Louis so carefully – but he did. Louis even going so far as to nervously pick at the paint speckles wrapped around his knuckles like a second skin for something to do.

“It’s not meant to offend Harry,” Louis assures. “It’s just this student is a real close one of mine – I swear he feels like my own family some days. I just told him I’d discuss it with you, to see – y’know – if you wouldn’t mind giving him the extra boost to make sure he keeps his spot for uni.”

Harry nearly blanks and nearly yells all in the same millisecond to process what Louis is asking him to do.

“I have a difficult class Louis, I know that, but I will _not_ falsify grades to simply let an art student slide by in required courses. I won’t do it – not even if it’s you that asks Louis.”

Louis drags back, drastic and overwhelmed with a look of shock on his face. “What? Harry-!”

Harry shakes his head, going back to handing out the sheets lingering in his hands. “I know that may make me seem like an ass, but I won’t compromise my morals for a single student. I’m sorry Louis.”

Harry turns completely, back to Louis to finish handing out the sheets of paper. But his arm flares with heat in the shape of a hand – tiny yet massive in its effect. Whirling around, Harry almost falters when he actually comes toe to toe with Louis. Louis looks exasperated, shaking his head as his hand slid down to grasp the only free one Harry had to offer.

Sparks rattled themselves along Harry’s skin with the movement and this time he did give in to that urge – only a little; gripping back at Louis’ hand in favour of being more drastic and connecting their lips.

“Harry.” It’s soft, and Harry appreciates the fragility of the moment. If he was rendered with anything but lightness he was sure Louis would break him.

“I’m not asking you to compromise your morals. I’m asking you to be a real teacher and maybe help the lad out. He’s more visual so you blabbering at him don’t help. I want to work with you to make sure this kid does make it to Man U. Or do you think working with the weird art teacher will compromise your morals too?”

Louis laughs a little at the end, and Harry has to close his eyes. Shut his gaze from the look of amusement and the adorable crinkled eyes that marred Louis’ face with beauty.

Louis squeezes his hand and Harry needs to open his eyes; he does but he finds his stomach going weak with the action. Louis looks as beautiful as Harry figured, spatters of freckles mixed like a canvas with acrylic to make up the cosmic array across Louis’ cheeks that were full of a smile.

Harry needed to remember this moment for writing; though his hand was hesitant to pick up a pen when Louis’ hand felt more natural in his own. A feeling he hadn’t come across before in his lifetime.

“Well?” Louis asks, glancing down at their hands like it is the beginning. Licking his lips right after he says it, as if it’s a secret promise – Harry’s secret wish.

It is. Or at least Harry hopes it is.

“Yes.” He nods, “Anything for a student.”

Harry would like to pointedly ignore the way he replaces student with Louis.

**

_“I find him in the curves of certain lines,_

_In the loveliness_

_And subtleties of certain colours.”_

_Oscar Wilde_

They arranged to meet that night.

Louis figured that going to either of their own places was entirely too informal for their first official meet up outside of work, so he suggested a coffee place around the corner from his flat. It was familiar and cozy.

It also had an array of different coffees – which he knew Harry would like; but that really wasn’t the point.

Harry arrived before Louis, already plunked down with a cup of iced black something – probably something fancy or weird; he definitely seemed to be the type to like the hipster coffee this place surely had to offer.

He also had a sandwich. Louis couldn’t tell what kind, but it looked cheesy and when he approached the table it smelled good. Harry appeared to be waiting for Louis to settle with his own cup of tea and a muffin before he dug in.

Sipping minutely at his tea as Harry chewed, Louis looked at what else was laid out on the small cafe table.

There were three novels, or say two novels and what looked to be a collection of poems. Upon closer inspection the collection was of Romantic Poetry, and the novels were _Pride and Prejudice_ and _To Kill a Mockingbird_ . Louis nearly rolled his eyes - _lit major were always stuck on the “classics”_ \- instead he browsed over the papers that gather opposite to the novels. Slightly wrinkled paged stuck underneath Harry’s right elbow, with what looked like penned in notes. 

_Probably lecture notes then_. 

Just tearing apart his muffin and taking a small bite, Harry cleared his throat lifting his elbow to grab at the papers that had previously resided there. Louis watched as Harry scanned the notes with a slight crease between his eyebrows, wrinkling his nose at something before grabbing his pen to scribble something out and write in something anew. 

“So I was thinking we could go over my lecture notes from the past little bit to see where we can maybe help the student, and then we can look at what else I’m hoping to fit in before the end of term,” Harry stated resolutely, finally meeting Louis’ eyes.

He looked nervous, eyes flitting away from Louis’ to instead gaze behind his shoulder; as if he longed to outside, anywhere but here going over his notes with Louis. One hand tapping a nonsensical rhythm on the table top while the other fiddled with the straw of his drink. 

Sighing to himself, Louis put down the piece of muffin he was holding; instead folding his hands together in a clasp in front of his chest in an appearance of seriousness. Frowning a little, and tugging on a strap of his overalls that sags a little too far off his shoulder - threatening to slip - Louis takes a moment. Wondering exactly how to phrase what he wants to say without making an ass of himself. 

“Listen Harry,” Louis started, shifting in his seat like the movement was going to make this conversation any more comfortable. “If earlier I was a little too strong, I apologize. I know I get a little overinvested in stuff like this, so I understand if you’re not up for it.” 

Harry rushes out a no, shaking his head profusely as his hands scramble across the table to Louis’. 

“S’not it Lou,” Harry huffs. He must realize his hands are entirely engulfing Louis’ over the table halfway through the denial as he hastens to pull them away. But Louis twitches his fingers up, just enough to catch on Harry’s own that little bit more hoping the message is clear enough. 

It must be, because Harry leaves his hands overtop Louis’ just enough that their fingertips are overlapping. Louis counts it as a win - especially when a small dusting of pink rises in Harry’s cheeks. 

“S’just that I don’t know how to work out literature into visual learning - like I can do essay after essay, or ramble on about Keats and Wordsworth but I got no clue how to make that comprehensible to an art kid. I’m all words - no pictures Lou.” 

Harry genuinely seems upset, remorse seeping into his voice like an unwanted flavour of sympathy. Louis smiles gently at him, pulling one of his hands away to place it over Harry’s while serving a patting motion. 

“That’s why I’m here mate,” Louis admonishes, sounding a little too soft for the statement to be truly reprimanding. “I’ve got the whole art thing down, you tell me the plans in words and I’ll transform them into shapes - s’what I’m good at Harry.” 

The soothing seems to take away majority of the worry within Harry’s face, and it makes Louis’ chest feel lighter. He watches Harry nod, breathing in deep before huffing it. 

“Okay,” Harry muttered out lightly, meeting Louis’ eyes with a renewed sense of vigor. “What’s the lad’s name then?”

“Callum.” 

Harry smiles to himself and Louis adores how craters embed themselves in his cheeks as he does. “Better start the plan for Callum before it gets past my bedtime and I get cranky.” 

Louis laughs and so does Harry. It’s lighthearted and easy - something Louis’ craved for a while but has never had. 

That feeling of full body warmth fills Louis’ entire body - and he knows. The humble yellow seedling of sunlight pitted in his stomach blooms to full rays of golden bliss and Louis _knows_. 

Harry draws his hands away after that and Louis shivers at the loss, but the warmth of sunlight stays contained at his core. 

He’s always been on the colder side, never warm enough to draw his own flame or to feel his own sunlight. He figures that’s largely why he paints in cold hues, unable to draw upon a honey pot of happiness; unable to dabble paint brushes in fire and ochre shades simply for the fact that his life is lived largely in dark hues.

Yet the spark of Harry’s hands ( _of his words - his presence)_ , so gentle yet so radiant, leave Louis amidst a colour wheel of warmth. 

He’d like to tell himself it’s simply a small side effect; Harry’s emanating warmth slightly inspiring the new pallet. 

The two canvases he paints later in fiery magenta and crimson say it’s more of an obsession. 

** 

_“I paint to make up the gaps,_

_That language just cannot fill.”_

_Efrat Cybulliewicz_

September became a month, wherein Louis’ studio became his sanctuary. 

September brought a light - a certain passion - to any canvas Louis touched, and as such, Louis found himself practically living in one room of his house. His bedroom was only used for sleeping, the bare amounts Louis let himself get, as his painting often took him into early in the morning. The kitchen had simply been reduced to where he stored his take away, made his pre cooked waffles or prepared the endless amounts of coffee that evidently got him through the day. 

The painting barely stopped - only halting when Louis found himself running out of colours he hadn’t touched in years, or when he needed to go out and buy more canvases, having no time to delay his inspirations to stretch his own. 

Louis found himself looking down at his hands and finding fuschia or crimson red instead of the muted greys and blues he had come to expect on his hands for years. His painting clothes held more remnants of mellow yellows, and lovely lilacs to curve the neon pink and burnt oranges that resides there as well. The studio itself seem to represent a fire of inspiration - a combustion of difference. Paintings of warmth quickly replacing those that only represented darkness or quietness in a way that was not kind.

Louis appreciated the way his studio transformed - but he was entirely more appreciative of the man that was responsible for such change. 

While Louis would like to potentially ignore the way the new literature teacher affected him he couldn’t ignore the way he infused his paintings with warmth he garnered from Harry. From small smiles in the hallways to the sneak glances he allowed himself. Practically ogling the other man - watching the way his hands moved excitedly when he was telling a story to a colleague, or how his emerald eyes would practically turn sea-glass green when he got excited - particularly when a student finally got what Harry was trying to teach. 

It felt creepy and some days Louis would chastise himself from lurking on the sidelines, but he couldn’t ignore the way he had splurged on gold flecks that he added to sage green paint in a desperate attempt to get an abstract reminiscent of Harry’s eyes. 

Louis knew he was desperate but he had never painted as passionately or as colourfully as he had in this simple September alone. It was manic nearly - the way he sought out Harry’s presence like his newest inspiration, but Louis figured it best to hold onto the artistic curve while it lasted. 

He never knew how quickly light and warmth would leave him - so Louis dabbled in it while he could.

The key was distance. But as Louis figured, Harry was too exquisite. 

He brought too much inspiration to Louis life to just be a simple light. 

Harry was a burning flame, one that evidently Louis found himself entirely and completely enraptured with. 

**

_“In case you ever foolishly forget:_

_I am never not thinking_

_Of you.”_

_Virginia Woolf_

Harry finds himself both thankful and regretful agreeing to help Callum. 

It's not because he longs to neglect his duties as a teacher - or because he feels like he has something better to do. It’s simply because with each meeting and extra tutoring session, Harry finds himself more endeared with Louis than the day before. 

It happens easily, and without Harry realizing it too much. One day Harry is entirely unaware of the way Louis’ eyes crinkle when he smiles and the next it’s worked into two of his new journal entries. The crinkles by Louis’ eyes, follows the fond fold Louis makes with his hands against his chest when he’s particularly proud. Harry also quickly learns of the cosmological transfiguration of freckles Louis has on his cheeks. Each and every facet of Louis’ body and his personality end up transferred into Harry’s journal. Small features and aspects of the enigmatic man being transcribed into prose. 

It seems easy, the way Harry comes to expect the light in Louis’ eyes when Callum answers all the questions right after the first few meetings at the end of September. It becomes equally as easy to predict the way Louis will beam and marvel at the abstracts Callum manages to make. Louis manages to always look enthralled as he critiques the boy’s work - always constructive and never harsh in a way that Harry thinks comes from experience. 

Harry endeavors to draw a strict lint between what is professional and what is personal but the pages of his journal beg to differ. They are easy evidence on how he hasn’t managed to draw one single line at all - how he’s easily let the distinction become fuzzy; all simply for the sake of Harry’s adoration and inability to stop the sonnets that create themselves in his head the second he’s in Louis’ presence. 

The personal becomes professional, and Harry can’t bring himself to care. Not when Louis smiles as bright as he does. Not when Louis is as artistic and perfectly poetic as he is.

**

_“You can find something truly important_

_In and ordinary minute.”_

_Mitch Albom_

The little remains of what September had to offer quickly passed by with Louis and Harry meeting nearly everyday after work. Most times those meetings usually included Callum, but there were always twenty minutes or so after Callum left to finally make the trek home that Harry would linger in the art class.

Harry said it was to ensure that him and Louis were on the same page for the next day’s tutoring session, but he liked the feeling he got the second he stepped into the art room. 

Maybe it was the fact that nearly nothing was organized; paint, sketch pads, charcoal, and brushes all haphazardly thrown into corners or onto shelves to make the appearance of put together. It was eclectic and one of a kind - not unlike the teacher that worked within the messy four walls. 

It also housed a few of Louis’ own paintings on the wall - and much as he hated to admit it - Harry stared at those the most. Having been caught more than a few times, he barely even tried to mask his amazement. His praises - the couple times he offered them up shyly and awkward, Louis tried to sack away the compliments. The need to prove to Louis that he loved giving the compliments (which were entirely earned) just made Harry give them more; always finding new ways to love and admire the same paintings - always telling Louis those new ways. 

It also had the added benefit of making Louis crimson at the cheeks and awkward in the limbs, which Harry enjoyed just about as much as he did the art. 

But those extra twenty minutes after tutoring sessions quickly added up as October bled on, and soon Harry found himself a regular with Louis and three other teachers at a pub; not actually too far from the cafe they had first met at. 

He’s intrigued by the not so subtle love between that gym teacher Louis mentioned at the very start of term and the quiet but sarcastic music teacher. Harry was also downright afraid of the chemistry teacher. A man definitely too manic to be handling explosive chemicals if his weekly accounting of which student he nearly maimed this week was anything to go by. 

The secret couple garnered a soft smile from Louis, and the science man roused belly laughs - Harry figured if all three managed to recollect Louis into both sappy and blissfully content he would manage with the interesting quirks of each. 

It was one of those nights tonight. 

Harry stuck sandwiched between Niall (the lovely chemist), and Liam (the gym teacher), while Zayn (the music man) sat on the other side of his partner. Niall, boisterous after a few pints and a damn near explosion at the school (his words - not Harry’s) just happens to be wedged between himself and Louis. 

Now, normally Niall is his favourite. Not for any specific reason other than he’s generally the only one to talk to Harry besides Louis. Liam and Zayn usually too caught up in each other to make interesting small talk. But tonight instead of sitting on Harry’s right, he’s on Harry’ left providing just enough body mass that it blocks Harry from seeing Louis in the full perspective he’d truly appreciate. 

Louis has gone off to gather another round, or maybe it was the bathroom - Harry didn’t hear him entirely. He’s too busy focused on the lack of his favourite arts cosmo to hear what Niall utters the first time. 

There’s a pair of fingers that snap in front of his face to ensure he hears it the second time around. 

“Lou’s like ‘em you know.” Niall nods, towards where Liam and Zayn sit. Sitting just a little too closely to be considered friendly. Not many people in the bar notice - or if they do, they leave it be, most likely used to the two men's presence. 

Harry’s heart hammers heavily once, before it flutters light as a feather - all the way up into his throat as he processes what Niall has said. He nearly chokes on his drink as he does. Coughing and patting his chest as he looks at Niall, watery eyed. 

“I’m sorry?” It’s weak, voice barely there. Harry doesn’t know if its from the heart lodged in his throat or from the coughing but he figures it might be a good mixture of both. 

“Y’know,” Niall motions, hands flailing out once more towards the couple. “Not interested in the typical sex, more of a lads man if you know what I mean.” 

Harry does know what he means. 

He knows _exactly_ what Niall means. 

** 

There is a lot that Louis had come to love about their lads pub night. 

The chips were perfectly greasy but not too soggy, and the beer was good and cheap. It was also made better when Louis got to listen to all the bitching Niall did about his inept wanna-be chemists and Zayn’s irritation at offkey wanna be singers over said chips and beer. What usually made the night was a usual game of footie and a lovely banter of whose team was the worst. 

But the banter, pints, the chips and his boys paled in comparison to Harry. 

As September had flown into October, Louis had found a constant radiance inside himself, simply from the present of Harry. It was like nothing he’d ever experienced before. The tips of his fingers bled crimson and sunshine like a bad mix of hurt and eternal happiness. Yet the way each bright burst of acrylic met canvas seemed to translate to _Harry_ and suddenly the mess of colours fit together like a masterpiece. 

Fall had never been so kind or fitting to describe Louis’ inspiration, and his sudden muse. 

Which is exactly why Louis is bothered by the lack of a literature teacher when he returns to the table, pint in hand. 

His first reaction is to look accusingly towards Niall. 

“What’d you do?” 

Niall looks startled, for a moment the hazy happy friday night drunkenness fades from his eyes and he looks confused. The haziness settles back in again after a moment - at only a fraction of what it was before - alongside mischief; like he knows something Louis doesn’t. 

“What makes you say that lad?” A slow smirk takes over Niall’s face, cheeks getting rosier from a bad combination of the alcohol and intervening with Louis’ (fictional) love interest. 

Rolling his eyes, Louis shoves at Niall’s shoulder. “Cause I know you, you cheeky fucker.” Blinking away the smile to replace it with a slight frown, Louis shoves Niall’s shoulder again. “Seriously Niall, did you do something to drive Harry away?”

It’s Zayn that surprises him; pulling away from his niche bubble with Liam to contribute to the accusation. 

“It’s not what he did Lou,” Zayn rolls his eyes, drumming his fingers on the table like a weird nervous tick - like he’s rhythmically counting down the amount of time it’ll take Louis to blow. “S’more like what he said.” 

Nostrils flaring, and cheeks burning with building rage, Louis turned away from Zayn to instead raise an eyebrow at Niall. “Tell me what you said Niall.”

Laughing and taking another swig of his beer, Niall shakes off the request. “S’no biggie Lou, you really should be thanking me.” 

Pinching Niall’s arm, and ignoring the indignant _hey_ the other man lets out, Louis demands once again, “What’d you say Niall?”

Niall looks at him with a heavy glare, scooting away from Louis as he does. “Jesus Lou.” He sips at his pint as Louis glares back, setting it down and sighing. “I didn’t say anything bad at all Louis - just figured him out s’all.” 

Narrowing his eyes Louis leans in closer, ignoring the slightly scared look that makes itself known in Niall’s eyes. “What d’you mean, _figured him out_?”

Rolling his eyes and shoving Louis away playfully, Niall laughs, “Y’know figured the lad out, figured out that he’s like you Lou.” 

For a moment Louis doesn’t know what Niall means when he says _he’s like you Lou_. But the raised eyebrow from Liam and the soft snicker from Zayn make it click in a moment. 

In that same moment, Louis is flabbergasted and amazed at Niall’s stupidity. 

The loving feeling of golden sunshine Louis has felt the past few weeks is quickly replaced by anger - bright and burning red anger. 

Punching Niall’s arm once, and then again Louis whispers coldly. “What the hell is wrong with you Niall - you don’t just, you don’t ask someone if they’re _gay_ Niall. Not in a goddamn bar and after knowing them for only a few weeks.” 

Louis knows he’s seething; the words barely fitting through his teeth from where they are clenched. The words are inflated with not only anger, but fear. Fear that the one simple question Niall asked is enough to drive away the fire that has filled his fall. Enough to drive away Harry, drive away his favour palette of all. As he’s spitting the words accusingly at Niall it’s like the fiery reds, and soft pinks with burnt oranges and golden yellows are slipping from his inspiration.

Louis stands up and leaves. Ignoring the protestations of his friends Louis practically runs out. 

He’s scared. 

Nearly broken down and almost cold, he feels like he’s losing Harry.

The canvas he paints when he gets home that is merely black and somber blues tones implies that he already has. 

** 

_“The role of the artist_

_Is to ask questions,_

_Not answer them”_

_Anton Chekhov_

Unfortunately for Louis, he is forced to face Harry a mere two days later. 

Saturday and Sunday passed in bleakness. Louis had only painted once, and even then he hadn’t completed the abstract. It was mostly grey and the strokes lacked ambition. For once Louis’ hands weren’t paint spattered with a rainbow of inspiration.

He felt naked. 

That feeling of exposure carried over to Monday where Louis half-assed his classes, and holed himself up in his classroom. Hesitant and nervous to catch Harry in the hall and be met with a disgusted look across his beautiful face. 

But today they were meeting with Callum to continue on with a new assignment. A cross between the new beat poets Harry had them learning and the scenic abstracts Louis was pushing his students to try. It was supposed to be wholesome and joint - but Louis figured today he’d be lucky if it was perfunctory. 

Slowly opening his door, hesitation controlling his entire body Louis wasn’t expecting to find Harry waiting anxiously outside his door. 

He was doing a muted version of pacing; lackluster steps between his classroom door and Louis’ while his hand pulled at his lip. Harry also seemed to be muttering something to himself (probably subconscious ramblings - Louis noticed he did that sometimes), but all Louis could focus on was the way Harry’s supple lips now looked a few shades darker. No longer candied pink, they seemed a softer version of fuschia. A lovely mix between plum and magenta. 

Louis was entirely too caught up in wondering what paints he would have to use to make the perfect rendition of that worrisome shade resting on Harry’s lips to notice that the other man had stopped his pacing. He noticed when Harry’s hand dropped from his face, and when the other man’s body angled itself toward Louis. The hand that had fallen away from his face twitched where it was at his side. It was either unconscious or from the nerves - maybe both - but Louis was quick to dismiss that observation when Harry started talking. 

It’s like Harry feels the need to close the distance between the two of them with each word. Louis listens, but it’s half hearted. He’s too focused on how Harry’s boots meet his chucks in a matter of seconds. 

“I really need to talk to you Louis.” Harry’s hovering in front of Louis, a slight hunch to his back. Louis really tries to maintain the eye contact Harry seems desperate to maintain but all he can focus on is the point of boots against the rounded rubber soles of his converse. 

It’s an amusing contrast. Louis likes the look of the two opposites meeting. 

Louis completely ignores the sentiment Harry had just expressed. In favour of acknowledging the need to talk, Louis places the toe of his shoe over top Harry’s and taps it lightly. When Louis looks up with a playful smile, Harry’s looking at him like he’s absurd. 

“Louis.” The absurdity is apparent in Harry’s tone. It warms Louis enough to bring an itch back to his fingertips and a dusting of rose to his cheeks. Harry continues on. 

“Louis Niall told me something at the bar and - and I need to know if -” 

Flicking his eyes up to Harry’s while his eyebrows raise to suspiciously close to his hairline, Louis cocks his head to the side. “What?” It’s mocking, and Louis wishes it came out a little different because it makes Harry shrink into himself a bit. “Need to know if what he said is true?”

Harry looks as if he’s trying to broaden his chest like he isn’t afraid of that question that in Louis’ experience usually ends with being called a fairy or a fag with a swift punch to the jaw or a rough shove into a wall. Louis knows the feeling of bravery when all his bones want to do is curl into the smallest speck. 

He carries on talking but drops the mockery in his tone. He figures it’s the least he could do - especially when he is searching for a particular answer to whether or not Harry is truly like him. 

“Better question Harry is whether what he said about you is true?” Louis softens his tone, and is nearly inclined to place his hand delicately on the other man’s forearm, but resists. He’s been on the receiving end one too many times of abrupt jerk aways that quickly turn violent and mean. 

Harry’s lower jaw drops the slightest bit, and this time he truly does straighten to his fullest height, looking down at Louis just the slightest bit. It makes him look condescending - or maybe that’s just Louis’ petty opinion because he’s short. Either way it nearly flips the sense of unease onto Louis. 

“So what if it is?” It’s filled with what must be Harry’s version of malice, but it comes out so transparent Louis can hear the fear in his voice. Again Harry speaks, “So what if I am?”

That’s when Louis decides he’s had enough of circling around the point. 

“So what if I am too?” eyeing Harry, Louis bites his lips just a little. “What if that was the answer I was hoping for?” 

There’s a steady burn in Harry’s eyes that seems to match the one in Louis’ stomach. Once again Louis’ fingertips tingle with the need for a _goddamn paint brush_ (why does he never have one when he truly needs it), because once again Louis feels on fire with the way Harry makes him feel. 

If this time he’s thinking a dark mulberry that he equates with lust that is not his problem. 

It is Harry’s though - what with the way he surges forward; as if he’s ready to kiss Louis right here in the middle of the hallway, like there is nothing at all to be concerned about. 

Instead Harry’s forced to remain in place, and Louis is forced to remain stuck on mulberry (and perhaps even a little bit of gold) as Callum chooses that exact moment to appear. 

** 

_“Soul meets soul_

_On lovers’ lips”_

_Percy Bysshe Shelley_

The meeting was finished and as much as Harry wanted to, he didn’t crowd Louis up onto a desk the second Callum was through the door. 

It mainly had to do with the fact that Louis seemed entirely unaffected during the meeting - except for his eyes. Harry would have been inclined to immediately change the apparent aloofness, if he hadn’t caught the mischievous glint in Louis’ eyes. There was a particular look in his eyes, nearly sinister like a kid who knew he was about to get spoiled at Christmas that made Harry hang back. It appeared Louis liked games - but only games he thought he was winning. Harry didn’t want to be the only one vulnerable this conversation round, so he figured he’d let Louis toil for only a few minutes more. 

Evidently Louis was better at this game, and he pulled a seat only mere inches away from his own and patted it - asking Harry to sit down. 

Harry hated that he had zero impulse control; sitting down just as Louis was removing his hand so that it brushed against Harry’s thigh. 

Clearing his throat, both from the touch and from the realization that Louis cheek was practically touching him, Harry glanced at the easel Louis had say them in front of. It held a blank canvas, a little unusual and Harry had found that Louis hardly ever had blank canvases - they were always at least half painted - and for a moment Harry lost his train of thought. 

He certainly didn’t gain in back when Louis placed a hand on Harry’s jaw to turn his gaze away from the easel. 

It was harder to concentrate this way - but Harry figure that was most likely the point. This way, he could easily see the really freckles littered across Louis’ face as well as the small flecks of maroon and sunlight yellow that dotted his nose and occupied a significant space in his eyebrow. Being this close to accurately count distances between coloured-cosmo points on this angel man’s face was nearly ethereal - if not entirely inconvenient to Harry’s own plan to wait Louis out. He wished he was able to push away Louis’ hand that rested on his jaw, but he favoured the delicate (and definitely paint covered) hands entirely too much to actually do so. 

Instead he brought his own hand up to cradle Louis’, hoping in vain that it would work to maybe take some of the pressure off him (literally and figuratively). It didn’t really work, because the soft smile and fond look it got him from Louis only brought a rush of heat to his face. Definitely flushing pink if not red, especially when the soft smile turned into a full on grin. 

“I’m sorry for dancing around the point earlier,” Louis mutters quietly. “Should’ve just said it straight out.” 

Snorting Harry nods, and it’s like Louis takes that as enough to continue. 

“Lemme draw you a wonderful portrait of yourself to make up for it?”

Harry almost says he’d prefer a portrait of Louis himself, but he holds back. Instead he nods, and smiles back adjusting to sit higher in the chair just as Louis turns directly to face him. 

Confused, Harry’s smile drops and a frown takes its place. The confusion only deepens when Louis places one hand on each side of Harry’s face, and begins to trace along his cheekbones. Almost shaking his head, Harry looks at Louis’ like he’s gone a little insane; but Harry figures, maybe he has. 

“Honestly Harry,” Louis chides, moving one hand to smooth a thumb across Harry’s brow bone. “How d’you expect me to draw your face if I can’t trace out the lines all properly. Relax H.” 

And - _oh._

“You sneaky little shit,” Harry mutters, laughing as he says it. 

Acting offended Louis eyebrows arch up, but that glint is back in his eyes; that “mischievous _little shit_ about to get everything he wants” glint. “Honestly H, I have no idea-” 

Harry doesn’t let him finish. But he does give Louis what he wants.

Surging forward (or maybe it’s Louis pulling him in) Harry snags Louis bottom lip between his own, and presses _hard_. He’s been waiting for this for nearly two months and he’ll be damned if Louis’ doesn’t know it. 

Slipping his tongue against Louis as his hands surge desperately to the seam of space between Louis’ knees, Harry pushes them apart and then stands. Prying Louis’ lips apart as he does the same to his legs, Harry curves to ensure his lips don’t leave Louis’. Moving himself so that his body is cradled in the v of Louis’ legs, he grasps at one thigh, while the other goes around Louis’ waist.

He’s hunched over, but he doesn’t care, and suddenly there's a hand twisting in his hair and one grasping at the sweater across his shoulder. Sliding in closer, pulling Louis’ thigh closer to his hip, Harry breaks away, nearly breaking when he hears the broken off whimper Louis lets out. 

His lips make their way down to Louis neck and he revels in the sweet smell that lingers there. It’s almost sickenly sweet, or maybe it’s just the high Harry’s on, but he feels light headed with the scent of some sort of fruit - maybe it was strawberry, or better yet cherry. 

When he breaks away again, it’s enough to see Louis’ face. 

As soon as he does Harry wants to drag this man back to his bed, or on top of one of these desks - because Louis looked _celestial_ . Like stars falling apart in the greatest of ways, or a comet in all its burning glory before it plummets - and _god_ , all Harry wanted to do was catch the scattered and beautiful pieces when he did. 

Bringing his hand to rest against Louis’ jaw, Harry took his turn in sweeping a thumb across the man’s cheekbone. There were lingering tears in Louis’ eyes, and the tracks of a few that had already fallen against his cheeks. His cheeks were robust in their rosie shade, and Harry believed he would never find a greater appreciation for pink than this moment. 

There was also a lingering vulnerability than made Hary lean back in. Cradling Louis’ head, Harry pressed a lingering kiss to the pillowy lips that were practically waiting for him to do so. After two pecks, Harry sighed and sank into his spine so he could hide himself away in Louis’ neck. 

Pressing lingering kisses there, half bite have tongue, Harry murmured into the lovebites, “My dear Louis, what are you doing to me?” 

Pulling Harry’s head up, Louis looked at him curiously. 

Resting his forehead against Louis, and choosing instead to grasp around both of Louis’ thighs before pulling them up so they rested equally on the dips of his waist, Harry elaborated. 

“I have filled all my notebooks with thoughts of you. How you feel like not only my world but my entire universe. How I cannot fathom going a day without seeing you - paint speckled and beautiful. How all I can think about is you in my life, filling it up - making it so incredibly full with your energy and vibrance.”

Pausing to press a kiss to Louis’ forehead before sliding to the side and resting at the other man’s temple, Harry continues, “All I desire is to kiss you, to make you full of me, to have all of your pleasure and ecstasy. I want to make you mine, and I already know I want you for as long as you’ll have me. You make me desire all aspects of you - without you everything now is dull and unfulfilling to me.” 

He hears Louis’ breath stutter and his hips shift so they’re even more flush against Harry’s before. Harry can feel that Louis is hard, and he’s sure Louis can sense that he is too. But he doesn’t push it too far, only gently rocking his hips in a few slow gyrating circles before he stops to look back at Louis completely. 

The rosie tint in Louis’ cheeks has bloomed to straight ruby red. Harry moves one of his hands from Louis’ thigh to his jaw to thumb at the colour appreciatively, humming as he does. Louis whimpers and slides his own hands back to rest one at Harry’s lower back and the other on his ass. 

Louis’ hands press enough to make Harry’s hips give and Harry doesn’t stand a chance as soon as Louis whimpers, biting his lip as he looks at Harry expectedly. 

Shaking his head, even as he presses his hips closer Harry presses a kiss to Louis’ lips. “We can’t here.” 

Louis grunts, frustrated. “Why? There’s no one else ‘ere right now.” 

Shaking his head, Harry grabs a fistfull of hair at the back of Louis’ head and gives a small tug, watching as Louis’ mouth falls open on a silent moan. “Doesn’t matter. I want you entirely to myself.” Pausing once before letting go of Louis’ hair completely and stepping back just enough so their hips were no longer touching, Harry added, “I’d preferably like to have you at my apartment, in my bed, where we can touch as much as we want all weekend long.” 

Pouting, Louis grabs at Harry’s hands. “H, it’s only Monday. I can’t wait until Friday.” 

Sighing to himself, before brushing his hair away from his face Harry nodded. “You’ll have to.” Ignoring Louis’ pout and him crossing his arms, Harry continued, “I’ll feed you equal amounts of food and wine on Friday, and then we can Lou.” 

Smiling wickedly to himself only seconds after the words are out of Harry’s mouth, Louis whispers, “So if I last out all week I get dinner, wine, and dessert?” 

Grabbing at Louis jaw, Harry tilts Louis head up to his. Capturing Louis’ lips between his own, Harry let his hand slip to Louis’ throat - hoping the intention was clear enough. 

With the way Louis rips away, whimpering and biting his lip, Harry figured it is. 

** 

_“You cannot lie in your paintings_

_Because you cannot hide_

_From yourself.”_

_David Berkowitz Chicago_

Friday arrives with a much needed and anticipated sense of bliss. 

All throughout the week, there was a persistent irritation that Louis couldn’t quite place, or fix for that matter. It was like there was frustration in each and every one of his actions. A sense of hesitancy yet impatience; worrisome one moment and entirely sure the next. It was a mix of one extreme to the next. Even his paintings had evidence of it. 

His art studio was a throttled mess. A plethora of discarded canvases put away almost shamefully in the corners, while also still rested on their easels. Finished, but not just taken care of or packed away. There was a myriad of canvases, ranging from unfinished with aggressive paint strokes to detail orientated masterpieces painted in solemn colours Louis could only describe as plaintive waiting and yearning. 

It seemed apt that his studio - the place that usually represented the cohesive side of Louis’ life - should be in shambles as he waited for five simple days to pass. Five days that seemed to amount to five weeks in Louis’ mind. Milleniums where all he dreamed about was Harry’s hands, and his mouth - their bodies melted together like liquid. 

It was painstakingly long, but Thursday did eventually fade into Friday and Louis felt a sort of ease settle over his body. 

It was like that irritation, that subtle but ever present annoying twitch under his skin faded as soon as the clock struck midnight. It most likely eased with the knowledge that in mere hours the only thing he would have on his body would be Harry’s hands. But as Louis had washed the paint off his hands from an entire night in his studio, he shook his head. He was been melodramatic - or maybe needy was a better word - and he tried to wash away the thoughts of a _very_ naked and equally wonderful English lit teacher from his head much like he did with the acrylic across his knuckles. 

Friday’s classes passed with ease, if with only a little nervous weight in Louis’ stomach. A weight that got heavier the closer the clock struck four, when the bell rang and the students left. It seemed like dead weight by the time Louis was standing in his classroom alone, and for a moment Louis wondered if his gut was trying to tell him something. 

It easily faded away the second hands settled onto Louis’ body. 

There was enough pressure from the hands on him, that Louis felt a slight pressure into the sharp bones of his hips. The impression of some of Harry’s rings turned backwards even pressing into his skin as he was enveloped. Lips easily settled into the curve of Louis’ neck; pressing lingering kisses, just on the right side of wet from shoulder to neck, the Louis’ right temple.

Sighing easily, blissful as Harry’s arms wrapped entirely around his waist, Louis sunk back into the chest that was eagerly waiting for him. 

“Finally Friday my sunshine,” there was a sultry tone that Louis had never found in whispers before. Quiet words hooking delicately and deliciously around Harry’s accent in the smallest of ways. 

It was mildly infuriating, as Louis had never thought whispers were anything but innocent. But with Harry wrapped around him, and the possibility of tonight, Louis found himself biting his lips to contain a whimper. A whimper that was so easily evoked by a whisper that sounded like a promise or at least a strict intention. 

He could feel Harry’s smile against his temple and he wanted to hit the other man. He tried - but evidently Harry knew him a little too well. Just before the hand aimed to slap Harry’s side managed to make its mark, it was captured and brought up to the other man’s lips. 

Louis relaxed even more when Harry gently placed a kiss to his knuckles, and he followed easily when Harry guided his hand up. Louis placed his hand where Harry left it, curling his fingers languidly in the curls at the base of Harry’s neck. It felt easy this way, slowly being rocked and held ever so tightly by the man he had pined after. Feeling an easy smile from that same man against his temple, while his hips were pulled backward to rest in the cradle of Harry’s hips. 

“I don’t think something like this has ever felt so easy,” Louis murmured, turning his head to nose underneath Harry’s jaw. 

Louis thinks he hears Harry mutter out a _me either sunshine_ , but he’s too focused on the way Harry leans his head back as a silent _continue_ ; that is invitation enough for Louis. 

Following the trail his nose makes with brief kisses, moving to the point that it becomes necessary to turn in Harry’s arms. The arms around his waist loosen like a means of permission, and in thanks Louis winds both arms that much tighter across Harry’s shoulders. Fingers digging in further, grasping at more chestnut hair as his kisses wind themselves up to Harry’s ear. 

Louis gently nips at the lob there, before trailing his lips down again. Moving almost in an opposite spiral. He feels the exact moment Harry swallows, almost choked off and restrained, like he’s trying to hide his voice from Louis. Rolling his eyes, Louis bites against Harry’s throat _hard_ \- grinning when Harry hisses. Louis grins even harder when a hand winds itself into his hair and pulls hard, enough that he’s forced away from the mark he was suckling over. 

Harry looks at him - eyes a swirling mass of anger and desperation. Licking his lips, Harry shakes his head, and pulls at Louis’ hair again, making his scalp smart just the smallest bit. “S’going to leave a mark Lou.” 

Rolling his eyes and pushing himself up onto his toes so that he’s level with Harry, Louis shakes his head and leans in close. “Don’t care.” Ghosting his lips over Harry’s Louis whispers again, “You made me wait till Friday, I’m going to make sure everyone knows that.” 

Harry captures his bottom lip between his teeth and lets out a small groan; one that has Louis grinning for just the smallest moment before his lips are caught between Harry’s. Louis revels in the way Harry doesn’t waste time prying his lips apart; a firm hand winding around the back of Louis’ neck while the other grips delicately into his waist. It’s a nice contrast - especially as his mouth is moved in the most sensual way - just enough tongue, but not too wet. 

Harry breaks away first, and almost instantly Louis is pushing in again; catching Harry’s lips for the smallest of seconds before hands are pushing him away. 

Harry smiles at him, almost in a coy way which Louis can’t help but think is ironic. Especially when Harry’s hand slips to briefly grab at his ass, patting it once it almost an appeasing manner before prying himself entirely out of Louis’ hold. 

Louis frowns, but Harry grabs his hand instead. “Round up your stuff, and I’ll meet you at mine.” 

Before Louis even has time to tell Harry he doesn’t know where Harry’s place is, the man is pulling out a small slip of paper from his trousers. 

Averting his eyes to the paper he grabs, Louis smiles and nods his head. 

_Let the weekend begin_. 

** 

_“Whatever our souls are made of_

_His and mine are the same.”_

_Emily Brontë_

Harry wasn’t entirely sure why there was a flip in his belly, or why his hands were shaking. 

Well that was a lie. He figured it was entirely to do with the boy - _man_ \- that was currently observing him from his kitchen table, but he didn’t entirely know why that man was making his insides feel like a _goddamn_ rollercoaster. 

Maybe it was the annoyingly persistent way Louis was tracking all of his movements - or maybe it was simply the implication of later tonight that Harry found himself shaken. Almost visibly so - if the way he knicks his finger while cutting up vegetables is any indication. 

Louis jumps up the second Harry drops the knife, swearing as he brings his finger to his lips. It’s like the other man's energy can’t be contained for long because he looks excited to be doing anything other than sitting back and watching Harry work - hands quickly flitting to fit a napkin to press against the finger that he pulls away from Harry’s mouth. 

Louis’ eyes crinkled as he smiles, and there's a snarky joke waiting on the tip of his tongue - Harry just _knows;_ but he ignores that for the simplest of seconds to just simply stand in awe. Watching as Louis’ hands - those delicate artist hands - begin dabbing at the small wound. Honestly Harry wouldn’t have even let the cut phase him, but standing this close to Louis, watching as his eyebrows draw together is the tightest formation of concentration while his hands work effortlessly to seep up the blood he figures once and a while it’s fine to baby himself. To let himself be cared for, even in the smallest of ways. 

“Working under pressure not your strong suit Hazza?”

Rolling his eyes playfully, Harry shook his head. “Apparently not when you’re around.” 

Louis’ looks up at him, eyes widened just the smallest bit as he pauses his dabbing. “Am I really that intimidating?”

Nodding his head, and worrying his lip, Harry watches as the information sinks in. Louis’ face softening as it does. 

Harry watches as Louis brings a hand up, palm curving to cradle his face. He leans into it and revels in the way Louis’ slides his hand just the smallest bit farther to scratch lightly at the hair behind his ear. “I’m sorry Haz, I really don’t mean to be.” Thumb sweeping softly against Harry’s cheekbone, Louis continues, “It’s just me though, you really don’t have to be scared.” 

Leaning into Louis hand more, Harry shuts his eyes. “I know Lou, but -” cutting himself off, Harry hesitates. Entirely unsure if he should let his words flow as freely as they do in his journal. 

From the way Louis shuffles in to press closer to Harry’s chest while he runs his hand down to grip lightly at his jaw, Harry figures Louis is asking him for more. 

And he gives so easily. 

Opening his eyes, and shuffling closer to ensure his body is pressed against Louis’ entirely, Harry continues, “But you are entirely everything I have ever wanted or dreamed for. I cannot contain my nerves, my excitement, my endearment, because it seems too entirely luck that a man like you - a man that seems like sunshine incarnate - would choose to be here with me. It makes me nervous that you’re here Lou, and it makes me scared in a way that you could disappear from my life in the exact same way you entered it. Because while I could withstand my life before you entered it, I could not do without you now.” 

Heaving a breath against Louis’ cheeks, Harry lets the words sit in the air. His stomach is in knots - he practically made _another_ love confession - this one entirely more explicit than the last, and he doesn’t know a way to take the words back. He doesn’t know how to encapsulate them and mutate them from Louis’ ears, to ensure he didn’t scare his sunshine away. 

He doesn’t think he could weather any gloomy days without bright blue eyes and cosmologies of paint speckled hands wound through his own. 

Louis shudders a breath, shoulders wracking with it, body caving in. And for a second Harry panics - because he thinks Louis is caving in on himself like Harry’s words hold too much to bear - but instead Louis falls into the waiting cradle of Harry’s arms. 

Confused and surprised, Harry doesn’t get it. Unsure of why the epitome of starlight and constellations is leaning on him after his entirely too large declaration, but it’s simplified when Louis frantically leans up to grasp at the sides of Harry’s face, pulling him down. 

He didn’t realize it before, but as he leans in, Harry hears _kiss me, kiss me, kiss me._

Hurrying to match Louis’ fever, Harry catches Louis’ lips in his. Working quickly to match the rush - the electric fire - that Louis seems to be chasing; the one he evidently thinks he’s going to find in Harry if the way he pries his tongue into Harry’s mouth is anything to go by. 

Circling Louis’ waist and hauling the tiny, little body up and against his Harry presses further. Dipping his tongue into Louis’ mouth, before biting at the man’s bottom lip; soothing the pain away with his tongue quickly before pressing his lips there to make up for their loss. 

Louis’ rips away and cradles Harry face like it’s the dearest thing in the world. Soft tears look like they’ve made their way to the surface of Louis’ eyes, nearly on the verge of spilling over to the delicately rosie cheeks. Harry brings a hand to palm at them a little sadly. 

“I didn’t mean to make you cry Lou,” Harry hurries, rushing the apology with a quick peck on the lips. “I’m sorry I’m so _much-”_

Louis shakes his head muttering out small _no’s_ , moving into the point where Harry is practically holding him; feet nearly entirely off the ground as he tries to level his gaze with Harry’s. 

“ _God_ Harry-” He closes his eyes and all Harry can think about is placing small kisses there. He does and as he does he can feel the way Louis is practically vibrating - like his body cannot contain his energy. 

_Like his celestial self is too much to be contained in a simple man’s body_ , Harry thinks. Immediately it seems fitting and for some reason Harry thinks holding Louis closer - picking him up and setting him onto the counter so only air can get between their bodies - is enough. Like the lack of space will help contain the astounding enigma that is this man - that is Louis. 

Lois goes with Harry’s movements, settling himself easily onto the counter - even winding his legs around Harry’s so his feet fit comfortably at the backs of Harry’s knees. He’s nearly weak with the feeling of appreciation, from the feeling of Harry’s declaration, but evidently his voice is still strong enough as he powers through to continue talking. 

“- I have often settled for not enough, for bits and pieces people were willing to give me. I was always half full, sometimes I was barely even there because I settled for the absolute nothings people left me with. But you - _you_ Harry have filled me up to the point where I no longer live in the muted. I’m no longer grey, or y’know dark from how much I feel on the outside.”

Pausing to grip desperately at Harry’s hands, Louis steadies himself to look at Harry, tears soaking his voice and raining on his cheeks when blue finally levels itself with green. “I may be your sunshine but you are the muse I have been waiting for me entire _goddamn_ life.” 

And with that simple sentence Harry feels entirely, and completely whole. 

**

_“Why, darling, I don’t live at all_

_When I’m not with you”_

_Ernest Hemingway_

Normally Harry loved all the books in his room. 

It was primarily the way they took up space, eliminating the sense of emptiness that filtered through. He also liked being able to easily pick up a book from any place in his room and be immersed in the alternative, fictitious, and the wonderful. Normally, Harry would say books were his best decorative element. 

But trying to maneuver himself through the space, the one so entirely filled, with Louis clinging to him - biting desperately at his neck and clawing at his back in the exact same manner made Harry wish the books would simply disappear. 

Louis is mewling in his ear; desperate little whimpers and moans as their bodies are jostled against each other with every fumble Harry makes. Harry lets out a small groan when Louis squirms, using the hands that are holding up Louis’ thighs - Harry squeezes, hoping the message gets across for Louis to _stop moving_. 

It evidently only makes Louis squirm more, rutting his dick against Harry’s stomach as he tries to pull the button up out of Harry’s pants. Stumbling to a wall - this time on purpose - Harry settles them there, using the pressure and the sureness of the structure to dip in and press hurried kisses to Louis’ neck. 

He pushes Louis’ thighs apart as he does, grinding forward in a slow motion that contrasts so nicely to the way his lips hurry down Louis’ neck. His kisses are biting but the grind is slow, and it seems like the perfect combination for Louis, as he tilts his head back to groan. 

Louis lets Harry move, reveling in the feeling of it, desperate for it even - before his hands hurry to begin pulling at the dress shirt again. When it doesn’t immediately come loose - Louis groans again, this time in frustration. 

Huffing against Louis’ neck, Harry laughs - though the laugh is almost half annoyance. “It’s cause I’ve still got m’belt on Lou.” 

Swatting Harry’s shoulder Louis begins grinding down to match Harry. “Then get it off.” Harry hears Louis pause to moan, and that makes him just press in harder, changing the slow circle of his hips to more of thrust - mimicking fucking in. 

“Jesus H. I did not wait days for you to get inside for a damn belt to get in my way.” 

Harry’s sure Louis’ means it to be more firm, but he’s a whimpering mess. The statement coming out more as a plea, like he’s begging Harry for it. 

Harry let Louis’ thighs drop slowly, ignoring the whine of protest from the other man as he steadied both of them. Stepping in close to kiss Louis, tongue working itself easily over Louis’, Harry began to undo his belt. Feeling the way Louis’ breath hitched before his mouth got desperate against Harry’s and he evidently realized what Harry was doing. 

Pulling away just as Harry pulling the belt through the loops of his trousers, Louis looked at him hungrily. Nodding, like it was permission, Harry watched as Louis’ fingers hastened to the buttons on Harry’s shirt. The buttons came undone with easy motions, but the more Harry’s skin was revealed the wider Louis’ eyes seems to get.

The buttons were barely done, before Louis was pushing the fabric off Harry’s shoulders. Starting underneath Harry’s jaw, Louis worked his way down, placing delicate kisses to every inch of bare skin he could reach. Louis stopped just below the valley between his pecs, playing with the button of his trousers as he glanced up at Harry. 

Harry revelled in the glazed look present in Louis’ eyes; watching as Louis pupils seemed to dilate more the longer he looked at Harry. Rolling his lips, and watching Louis track the action Harry smiled. Louis looked at him once more before glancing down at the button he was fiddling with so avidly. 

“Go ‘head Lou.” 

Harry watched as the permission seemed to make Louis smile. The smile was there for only moments before it was gone, Louis’ face becoming coy as he sunk to his knees, looking up at Harry as he began to undo the button and the zip. 

Steadying his hand against the wall, Harry leaned forward trapping Louis that much more between the wall and his hips. Louis moaned at the movement and brought his face to nuzzle in close, nosing at Harry’s dick once before hooking his fingers in the waistband of trousers and pants to pull them down. 

Louis’s eyes widened but a whimper fell from his mouth at the same time, so Harry figured he was satisfied. Bringing the hand not resting on the wall to grip at the base of his dick, Harry brought himself to Louis’ lips. 

Harry watched, enthralled as Louis didn’t even hesitate; tongue darting out from behind his lips to lick at the tip, before he leaned forward enough to envelope the entire tip in his mouth. Bringing his hand up after that, Louis placed it above Harry’s own to work the middle as his mouth sucked easily at the tip. Beginning to bob after a few moments Louis worked into an easy up and down motion, tonguing lightly at the underside. 

Moaning and pressing himself closer, Harry dropped his hand away while working his hips in more; watching as Louis didn’t even hesitate to move his hand down to the space Harry’s left, sliding his mouth down the shaft as he did. Pushing his hips in the same slow motion of Louis’ mouth, Harry began to thrust, watching eagerly as Louis hollowed his cheeks, saliva starting to slip outside of Louis’ mouth and onto his chin. 

Placing his hand in Louis’ hair to press the other man’s head against the wall, Harry pressed more, further into Louis mouth - and marvelled at the way Louis eagerly swallowed around him. Picking up the pace, hips twitching forward for more of Louis’ eager and willing mouth, Harry hurried more of his dick in - eager to take whatever Louis would give. 

Louis looked up at him and easily worked his hand around the base as he let his mouth relax - letting more of Harry inside. Louis moaned around Harry, letting more and more of Harry slid in until the tip was at the back of his throat. Harry’s hips twitched at the feeling, the soft but sensual clench of Louis’ throat around him. Thrusting unevenly, Harry pushed himself as far as Louis let him, revelling in the way Louis eyes gleamed up at him - tears nearly escaping. Feeling Louis’ throat clenching around him, more thoroughly than before Harry. He held himself there - in Louis’ mouth, down his throat- just watching as Louis eyes began to water with the way his throat throbbed around Harry’s dick. He stayed there for a moment watching as Louis’ eyes began to roll back with the heavy weight of Harry in his mouth before he drew back - reaching down to pull Louis up with him as soon as his cock fell from Louis’ lips. 

Quickly undoing the clasp of Louis’ overalls, and hurrying to tear off the sweater that was on underneath, Harry grasped at the other man; first at his jaw to get Louis to look at him, and then down to his neck, holding there as if it would serve to gain Louis’ full attention. 

It did, and Harry murmured out a quick _good_ , as Louis looked at him entirely; gaze entirely on Harry as he kissed Louis’ cheek. 

“You’re so good Lou,” pressing another kiss to Louis forehead, Harry let his lips rest there, pulling away a moment later to look Louis in the eye. “You can suck me again later, but I want you naked and on the bed now.” 

Nodding his head, and undoing the buttons by his hips easily, Louis licked his lips. “You’re big.” It wasn’t a question merely a statement, but Harry nodded his head nonetheless. “You really are my muse then.” 

Chuckling to himself, and helping Louis step out of the overalls, and then his pants, Harry starts shuffling them towards the bed. His hand providing a guide to Louis as it rests on his hips.

“Was there really any doubt before sunshine?” Harry asks, walking and enjoying the way Louis easily walks backwards with his help, eyes entirely fixed on Harry’ cock. 

“You couldn’t be my true muse if you couldn’t fuck me properly,” Louis simpers, though there’s a mischievous look in his eyes. “And fucking me properly does include being hung H.” 

Laughing and pushing Louis onto the bed, Harry follows right after. Easily falling into Louis’ already spread legs, Harry ruts down grabbing onto Louis’ hair to tug his head to the side, nipping at the skin revealed to him after. “Is that so?”

Nodding and moaning around a yes, Louis wraps his arms around Harry’s back and scratches down, eliciting a hiss from Harry. 

“Well then sunshine, you can spread your legs for me anytime you want.” 

Harry pulls back to look at Louis and for a heartbreaking moment, Louis looks unsure. 

“Promise you won’t leave after I do?’

Shaking his head, and placing his hand against Louis’ chest, right over his heart Harry assures Louis, “Of course not Lou. I’m here.” Sliding his hand once more to Louis neck and grasping at it lightly, Harry locks gazes with Louis. “You’re mine, and I’m not leaving.” 

Harry watches as Louis nods his head before placing both hands overtop Harry’s on his throat. Harry watches as Louis uses his hands to slide Harry’s own higher like he’s urging Harry for more.

Harry does, but only a fraction of what Louis surely wants, and he watches as Louis’ eyes flitter closed in pleasure. Leaning in close, Harry whispers, “Are you sure you want this Lou? It might be too much for the first time.” 

Nodding his, Louis answers, “I need it. I need you to - please Hazza.” 

Nodding his head and pressing a quick kiss to Louis’ forehead, Harry acquiesces. 

Moving the hand not on Louis’ throat to the inside of his bedside table, Harry looks for the lube. He finds it easily enough, and places it delicately at the side of Louis’ hip - to ensure it doesn’t get lost - before reaching back in for the condom. He places that by the lube as well, before bringing his hand to tap lightly at Louis’ hip. 

It works to get Louis’ eyes open on him, and Harry’s grateful. “When I need you to look at me I’ll tap your hip like I just did okay?” Harry continues after he sees Louis nod, “I’m going to move my hand off your throat for now while I prep you, but before I get inside you’ll have it again okay?”

Louis frowns a little at that, but nods nonetheless. Immediately Harry moves his hand away and makes quick work of slicking up his fingers. Nudging Louis’ thighs higher, Harry tucks his hand underneath, looking at Louis as he does. The other man’s cheeks are flushed, crimson red with light tear tracks than makes Harry’s heart ache in the best way, and his dick throb. 

Louis nods at him, and Harry pushes the first finger in, watching as Louis’ face scrunches up before relaxing as Harry stills. Pushing Louis’ thigh up high enough that Louis grabs it to hold against his chest, Harry peeks down to where his other hand is. 

Harry had always thought Louis was beautiful; but as Harry looks down and sees himself working a finger in, and a second when he gets a wanton whimper from Louis - he doesn’t think Louis could be any more beautiful than this - any more gorgeous than with part of Harry inside him. 

Louis’ hips move with Harry’s fingers, twitching as Harry scissors his fingers open, as he thrusts them in further. Dropping his leg as Harry adds in a third finger, Louis places his feet flat on the bed, so he can circle his hips. Harry watches in awe every time Louis moves; hypnotized at the way Louis takes control of his pleasure and lets it go to Harry all in the same breath. 

It seems like forever, yet entirely too soon when Louis bats at Harry’s hip, urging Harry _to get inside please_. Watching, with a little frown as he takes his fingers out, but revelling in the way Louis’ hole clenches around nothing, Harry reaches for the condom. 

By the time he’s got it rolled down, and lubed up Louis is back to holding himself open for Harry. This time both hands hooked under his knees like he’s presenting himself to Harry. 

Moaning, and settling into Louis’ spread legs, Harry places the tip at Louis’ hole. “God sunshine, you have no idea what you do to me.” 

Letting go of one knee to grasp at Harry’s hip, Louis shuffles forward more, so that the head nearly pops in. “So show me H.” 

Falling into Louis is easy after that. Placing one hand beside Louis’ head and the other like he promised, Harry starts to push in. He presses into Louis throat and his hole equally and he basks in the way both make Louis arch off the bed; a long drawn out moan following as his eyes flutter shut. 

Harry stops half way, giving himself a minute because Louis is _tight_ , practically like a vice around him, clenching as if he isn’t sure whether Harry’s too much or not enough. 

Steadying himself on his knees, Harry grabs at Louis’ thigh, pressing it out as he presses in more. Louis’ hands fly to grip at the hand around his throat - but it isn’t to move it away; Louis grips at it and Harry can understand the desperation in Louis’ eyes because he feels it too. Leaning in to pepper Louis face with kisses, Harry assures him, “I know Lou.” Rubbing his hand soothingly across Louis’ thigh Harry continues to press kisses across Louis’ face as he bottoms out. “I know it’s a lot.”

Louis keens high, holding onto Harry’s arm as a tear rolls down his cheek. Harry kisses it away and delights in the feeling of being completely inside Louis. Happy and honoured that Louis has let him inside his body at all. 

Looking at Louis, Harry murmurs, “You pinch my hip if you need me to slow down or let go okay?”

He squeezes gently around Louis’ neck for emphasis as to what he means but from the way Louis quickly nods at him, Harry figures he already knew what Harry wanted. Kissing Louis’ forehead, Harry nods to himself, widening his knees where they rest in the bed, “You’re so good Lou, taking me so well.” 

Louis nods his head at that, shifting his hips back and forth like he’s ready for Harry to move. 

“You good sunshine?” Getting another nod from Louis, Harry pulls out halfway before thrusting back in; continuing the movement when Louis lets out a breath. He picks up the pace when Louis looks at him half expectent half desperately wanting, angling his hips deeper as he does. 

Harry gets a moan in response and doesn’t hesitate to do it again, flitting his fingers against Louis’ neck as he does. Louis looks up at Harry, eyes teary yet blown with pleasure, and Harry can’t fathom how he got so lucky as to see this man in such a beautiful and _wrecked_ state. 

Hunching over Louis, Harry thrusts in earnest, punching in and out in quick, hard succession as he does. There’s sweat dripping off his forehead, and his hair flops annoyingly into his face, but he can’t bring himself to move it away. His hands are too busy, capturing and ensuring Louis’ pleasure; one hand holding deliciously where Louis’ wants it most, and the other pushing at Louis’ thigh continuously. He grounds himself in the pressures he has on Louis’ body - neck and thigh - and uses both to push his hips harder, slowing down to make the thrusts longer. 

He watches as Louis’ body sings with the sensuality of Harry’s hips. Louis’ own hips working in circles, only making him look more debauched than before. Harry indulges in the way Louis body seems to be aching for it, desperate for Harry’s body - Harry’s dick inside him. 

He’s startled when Louis whimpers out his name; hips nearly stopping as he hurries to look at Louis. 

“What sunshine? Is it too much?”

Shaking his head, Louis moves one of his hands away from Harry’s arm and instead uses it to shift Harry’s hand away from his thigh to his dick. 

“Close baby?”

Nodding his head, Louis whimpers, rolling his head back as Harry begins to jack him off. 

Moaning, Harry leans in to whisper in Louis’ ear, “Nothing feels better than being inside you sunshine.” Groaning as his hips loose their rhythm, Harry speeds up his hand on Louis’ cock, nipping underneath Louis jaw as he does. 

“You look ethereal like this, desperate for my cock and for me.” Shifting to press his forehead to Louis’ Harry signs, wanton and slightly sappy. “There’s nothing I would not give to fill you up and make you whole every night for the rest of my life sunshine.” 

Louis moans at that, moving his hands away from Harry’s hand to rake his nails down Harry’s back. Whimpers come out in quick success, falling high and needy out of Louis’ throat as Harry kisses him some more. 

Louis moans, body seizing as Harry presses his hand against Louis throat just the smallest bit hard and in the next instant he’s whimpering Harry’s name. Broken and beautiful, Louis comes just like that, and Harry hurries to follow. 

Dropping the hand from around Louis’ neck to wind it underneath around Louis waist, Harry begins to pound back in. Basking in the tightness of Louis’ body after he’s just come. He feels a hand in his hair and another at his ass, pressing Harry in. 

Harry lets his body settle entirely into Louis’; face resting easily in Louis’ neck as his chest drops down and his hips drive in erratically a few times more. He stills, hips flush against Louis, and moans out - grasping desperately at any part of Louis’ he can get at as he comes. 

He gives himself a minute before pulling back to look at the he practically just confessed his love to. Instead of panicking, Harry is at ease. He looks at Louis and finds a blissful - if not spaced-out look - in the other man’s eyes. 

Louis’ hands are immediately up around Harry’s face, holding him like he’s a treasure, and Harry can’t help but return the sentiment. Pulling out slowly and pressing a soothing kiss to Louis’ lips as he does, Harry roles over onto his side. Quickly getting rid of the condom, he pulls Louis into him, holding him securely at the shoulders so that Louis can nuzzled easily into his neck. 

They don’t say anything for a while, but Harry figures it’s best to just hold Louis. It appeases Harry for a bit, but words and the way they bubble in his throat made the silence unappealing after a few minutes. 

Grasping at Louis’ hand to thread their fingers together, Harry expressed softly, “I meant it y’know.” He hears Louis make a confused hum, so Harry iterates further. “I know it was sexual - me saying you can spread your legs anytime for me - but I need you to know that this is about more than just your body to me.” 

Louis props his head up, looking at Harry curiously. 

“Like the sex was phenomenal, but I need you to know that like you’re not just pretty or beautiful when I’m inside you. You truly are the only person I want to spend my days with for as long as you’ll have me. I didn’t mean for all of it to be sexual, I just need you to know that.” 

Nodding his head, and letting a smile take over his face to the point where crinkles form by his eyes, Louis murmurs back, “I know.” He lets that sit in the air for a moment before adding, “I know you think of me outside of my body - but it is refreshing to feel like I can be a whole with someone both sexually and romantically. It’s practically been one or the other all my life Harry. I know you appreciate me in all ways. And let me remind you the only reason we had sex tonight - especially the particalrly dirty sex that we did - is because of your wonderful poetic declaration earlier in your kitchen. I wouldn’t have trusted you to be inside me if I didn’t know you wanted all of me H.” 

Sniffling to himself, and leaning in to kiss Louis’ waiting lips, Harry smiled - a bay of tears in his eyes. “That’s an awfully nice declaration of your own sunshine.” 

Falling back into Harry’s shoulder, Louis pressed a small kiss there. “I know.” Pulling the blankets around them after, Louis twines his and Harry’s fingers together again underneath the covers.

Harry smiled into the crown of Louis’ head, placing a soft kiss there before letting his head fall back completely into the pillow. He let himself drift with the comforting weight of Louis at his side. 

**

_“It has made me better,_

_Loving you…_

_It has made me wiser, and easier,_

_And brighter.”_

_Henry James._

Louis had shaken Harry awake, ignoring the confused look and annoyed grumble, in favour of urging Harry to dress and quickly pulling him out the front door. 

Harry hadn’t said much during the walk, simply moving instep beside Louis and bumping their shoulders lightly nearly every block they passed. Louis hummed to himself and caught himself looking over at Harry and smiling softly everytime his shoulder was brushed all the while trying to ignore the way Harry’s sleepy soft smile brought a slight pink tinge to his cheeks. 

As they round the final corner and Louis brought them into the building where his flat was, Harry raised an eyebrow at him, to which Louis could only shrug in return. In the elevator, with the small reprieve, Harry tangled their fingers together. 

“You know sunshine,” Harry muttered, squeezing Louis’ hands as he did. “I wasn’t really planning on leaving the bed at all this weekend, let alone the morning right after.” 

Chuckling Louis wrought their hands together tighter for a brief moment before letting go as the elevator opened on the sixth floor. “I know.” Stepping out, and beckoning Harry to follow, Louis walked down to _612_. “But I figured, you showed me your vulnerable side - so I would too.” 

Louis watches as a frown over takes Harry’s face, but is thankful that the man follows him regardless. 

Trudging into the flat, not bothering to untie his converse and ignoring the smallest noise of protest from Harry, Louis walked to the first door on the left, waiting outside it as Harry caught up. Feet bare, and face flushed with curiosity, Harry settles in beside Louis’ grabbing his hand as he does. 

“S’me studio,” Louis whispers, turning the knob to the door as he does. “I don’t normally let people in here, but I figured you are a special exception.” 

“Sunshine,” Harry murmurs, looking down at Louis instead of the open room waiting for them. “You don’t-” 

Louis cuts Harry off. “I know,” he affirms. “But I want you to.” 

Harry nods his head, and follows behind Louis into the studio dutifully. 

There’s a quick intake of breath and a moment of structured, heavy silence, before Harry is sighing like he’s beside himself. “Sunshine…” 

There’s exasperation, and wonderment in Harry’s voice as he twirls around the room. Letting go of Louis’ hand completely to traipse across the room where dozens of paintings basked in glowing warmth and beauty await Harry’s inspection. Louis stays by the door, hands flitting nervously to to pockets of his jacket, as Harry flips through some of the canvases stacked against the wall before moving over to the green and gold flecked canvas Louis had mounted to his wall, right beside the very first _warm_ painting Louis had made after meeting Harry.

“Baby…” Harry began to murmur, but Louis cut him off once again, shaking his head as he did. 

“I just want to say something first.” Waiting for Harry’s nod of acknowledgement, Louis began. 

There was a nervous quiver to his voice, as all he could feel was Harry’s imploring and waiting gaze on him. Heavy and nearly weighed down with expectations - but Louis continued nonetheless. 

“Before I met you, I painted in grey or blue, or black, or gross bland colours that looked alright on a canvas but never completely okay with me.” Pausing to swallow and garner more nerve Louis continued, “But then I met you and I found myself basking in warmth like I never had before. You made me feel like I could paint in reds, and yellows, and pinks all the while making it beautiful and loving. I have never felt so incredibly inspired or able in my entire career as a painter.”

Louis stops as he looks as Harry, both of their eyes misted in the most comforting way. “All the colour you see in this room Harry - this is all for you, all _because_ of you.” Letting a soft sob fall Louis walked over, standing in front of Harry to place his hands delicately across Harry’s chest. Revelling in the feeling of hands encompassing themselves over top of his own Louis continued. Looking up at Harry, Louis added softly, “You Harry Styles may call me sunshine, but you make me feel like the warmest day of the year.” 

Louis felt Harry shudder before leaning down, capturing Louis’ lips quickly in his. Louis felt hands fall down to his hips, Harry’s grip digging in quickly before winding around to Louis’ back - pulling him in. 

Louis whimpers but draws back - laying a hand against the side of Harry’s face before leaning over to place a peck against the other cheek. “Take me to bed.” 

Nodding his head, Harry shuffled out of the room and followed Louis lead. Falling onto the bed - Harry gives Louis everything he asks for.

It would be a shame to deny his sunshine anyway. 

** 

_“I know from experience_

_That the poets are right:_

_Love is eternal.”_

_E.M Forster_

It’s the next day, and Louis feels like he’s living in an alternative universe. 

They had gone back to Harry’s after spending the afternoon relaxing in Louis’ bed, Harry walking around Louis’ flat a few times and wandering into the studio each and every time. Louis stayed in bed and was content to watch Harry come back into the room sheepishly with a small canvas or two, asking Louis shyly if he’d be able to take them back to his flat. 

Louis nodded and smiled bashfully each and every time Harry asked and even helped carry the three canvases Harry had selected on the walk back home. Harry finally managed to make their supper - no sliced skin or sex, or grand declarations getting in the way this time. Louis enjoyed it and was more than happy to get on his knees for Harry right there in the kitchen before they had even cleaned up - just to show how much he appreciated it. 

They settled into bed, and Louis had writhed underneath Harry once more; content with Harry’s hips driving into him behind with a hand on his throat again. He fell asleep soundly that night wrapped up in Harry’s arm - never having felt so at peace. 

Which led him to here. 

Louis watches as Harry wakes with a confused look on his face. 

It fades, when he sees Louis sitting at his desk, but it appears once again when he notices the book in Louis’ hand. 

“Wassit sunshine?”

Smiling and flipping to show the cover to Harry, Louis watches as Harry props himself up in bed. “Why are you reading _The Illuminated Rumi_ at -” Harry looks to the clock on his bedside table and his brows furrow further. “- eight thirty?”

Louis laughs and instead walks over to the bed, pressing one knee up before swinging the other over Harry’s hips to settle in the other man’s lap. Harry seems appeased with the way Louis straddles him, pressing one hand to Louis’ waist while the other tries to pry to book out of his hands. Louis holds steadfast to the book, ensuring his thumb doesn’t slip from the page he’s been reading and re-reading since he woke up half an hour ago. 

Harry sighs but lets Louis be, instead focusing on the small indentations across Louis’ neck - partially from his hands, partially from his mouth. 

Louis tilts his head back as Harry inquires, fingers prodding delicately here and there across Louis’ neck and collarbone. Harry hums when he’s done, hand falling to Louis’ other hip. Harry raises his eyebrows at Louis, “Do they hurt baby?”

Shaking his head, Louis mutters out a quick _no_. 

“S’good,” Harry nods, leaning in to press feather light kisses on the smallest of marks from his own hands. “You feeling okay this morning?”

This time Louis feels Harry’s hand slither backwards to fall at the dip of his back, fingertips just grazing the top of his butt, but Louis understands the question all the same. Louis shakes his head again, but adds on this time, “It was everything I wanted last night Hazza, promise.”

Harry leans forward to peck Louis’ lips, “I know sunshine.” He pulls back to level Louis with a look, and this time it’s Louis’ turn to raise his eyebrows. “But next time I want clearer boundaries. From both you and me - we need to figure it out so we don’t mess it up baby.”

Nodding his head, Louis agrees. He goes to bring a hand to cup Harry’s face - a favourite past-time of his now as he _just about_ has an accurate feel for the man’s face to start sketching it out - but he’s quickly reminded that his hands are weighed down by the collection of poems. 

“You going to tell me what you were really doing reading from my romantic poetry stack - particularly Rumi?”

“You have stacks according to genre Harry?” Louis looks at him incredulously. In an instant the shy literature teacher is back. Louis grins as Harry stutters out his answer, cheeks flushing just the smallest bit while his neck down to his chest turn the same colour in equal amount of embarrassment. 

“I have too many books I ran out of bookshelf space sunshine,” Harry laughs, pinching cheekily at Louis’ hip. “You can’t make fun of your man for his passion baby.”

Quirking a sly eyebrow, Louis laughed, “My man?”

Nodding, Harry tried to look confident, but Louis felt the nervous twitch of fingers against his hips, and saw the slight furrow in Harry’s feature. “If that is what you want baby.” 

Nodding to himself, Louis opens up the book page, one highlighted and starred with black ink and bright pink sticky notes pointing to the words Louis was reading on loop this morning. 

“Can I read you something?”

It looks like Harry already knows what Louis’ going to read - if the wide, hopefully eyes are anything to go by - but he nods nonetheless. Ducking his head, pink dotting his cheeks no doubt - Louis began to read, “ _The minute I heard my first love story, / I started looking for you, not knowing / how blind that was. / lovers don’t finally meet somewhere / they’re in each other all along.”_

Louis doesn’t even get a chance to properly look up before Harry is surging forward, pushing Louis back onto the bed and hurrying to kiss him. Louis thinks he feels tears from Harry’s cheeks wetting his own - or maybe he is crying too. Either way he doesn’t care. 

He found it. 

His sunlight incarnate. 

**

_“To love or have loved,_

_That is enough._

_Ask nothing further.”_

_Victor Hugo._


End file.
